


Saturday's Child

by AlbaLark



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Severus Big Bang Challenge, Severus Birthday Bash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-06
Updated: 2012-03-06
Packaged: 2017-11-01 13:49:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlbaLark/pseuds/AlbaLark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Observations in the very early morning of January 9th, 1998</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saturday's Child

**Author's Note:**

> Published originally at the LJ Community Severus BigBang Birthday Bash on January 9th, 2011, but written one year previously.
> 
> This is utterly un-betaed, so whatever mistakes lie within are no one's fault but mine.

_Saturday's Child works hard for a living. - Nursery Rhyme_

 

Long parallelograms of light lay on the carpet as the full moon shone through the windows of the otherwise dark room. In a chair facing those windows, sat a man with his head in his hands. At first glance, one might have thought him some sort of odd statue, for the room was full of queer things half-realized in the moon's silver gleam. Only the slow expansion and contraction of his black-cloaked back (and only if one were standing very close) gave away the truth. Yes, he was a living thing. But perhaps only just.

Hair that gleamed blue-black in the pool of light in which he sat obscured his features, but the thin body and hunched shoulders suggested heavy burdens borne. Indeed, as he unbent his lank frame and shook the hair from his eyes, the moonlight threw deep shadows into the worried furrows slashing his face. He might yet have been mistaken for some ancient sage carved from alabaster and anthracite, but the dark, pain-filled eyes staring out the window disallowed that comforting delusion.

He stretched his long limbs in front of him as he sank deeper into his chair. The cold draught sheeting from the window made him draw his cloak about him more tightly; the fire had long gone out ere he had returned this night and he'd been in no mood relight it. No; he'd sit here in the dark. It was where he belonged.

Events of the last few weeks had brought home to him just how little control he had over the situation he found himself in. Students snatched from the Express - indeed, disappearing even from within the castle walls - whereabouts unknown, The Boy Who Lived's (not for much longer at the rate he was going, thought the man with angry despair) near disastrous trip into the trap at Godric's Hollow, followed by his near-drowning in the pool and the increasing paranoia of the Dark Lord; all left him feeling as if he were clinging to an increasingly spalling escarpment, waiting for his last handhold to let go. A shiver went through him that nothing to do with the chilly room.

The Dark Lord had seemed particularly keen on heaping humiliations upon Lucius this evening, perhaps hoping that Malfoy would finally rebel, and he'd have the pleasure of finishing him. Somewhere in the deep well of regret the man harbored, there was a large measure for his former mentor and friend. He should have tried harder, perhaps, to save him, but no matter how barely contained and patently obvious Malfoy's fury and resentment over his treatment at Riddle's hands, the danger to himself was too great. That barely contained resentment included him. Upstart. Usurper. Legilimency not needed to read the accusations in the eyes of both Lucius and his son. They would cut him down without remorse to regain their lost favor. So he must be ruthless in his turn. But knowing he had little choice did nothing to ease the pain of it.

And then there was the little matter of persuading a child who mistrusted him - loathed him, believed him to be a murderer, in fact - to sacrifice himself without a fight when the right time came. How he was supposed to accomplish this, the man had no idea. There was no doubt in his mind that Potter would never listen to a word he'd say, even if he did not kill him on sight.

The old coot asleep in his portrait behind him was of no help. The shade of Albus Dumbledore was lately alternating between vague reassurances and simpering platitudes, a disturbing indication that even the Great Schemer himself had no notion of what to do. It hadn't been in Dumbledore's plans, the man was certain, that The Chosen One should witness his demise. And now he, himself, must find a way to make the boy listen and trust what he said. There didn't seem enough magic in the world to accomplish such a feat. And time was running out.

The suffocating sense of the sand's slipping through the glass never left him these days. His only prayer was that he wouldn't be forcibly removed from the stage before his part had been completely played and he saw the Dark Lord off to whatever doom awaited him. He wasn't optimistic. His prayers had never been answered before. The man scowled at himself for giving in to such bathetic thoughts. He glanced at the ridiculous whirling, chiming monstrosity the former Headmaster had had the nerve to call a timepiece. A few minutes yet remained before the clock's multitude of hands would point to the hour of his birth 38 years ago.

He had spent most of those years, with few exceptions, resolutely forgetting that today's date had any more significance to him than any other. His birth had not been cause for celebration in his parents' view, and it wasn't until Lily that he'd ever had anyone acknowledge it. That had vanished soon enough. After the man had joined the staff at Hogwarts, Dumbledore always wished him many happy returns, as had his fellow Heads of House. Other than _her_ , they had been the only ones. There would be none of that today.

Merlin's balls, but he was being maudlin all of a sudden! He wanted to believe that this one was of no special significance, either, but such consoling little lies were beyond him at the moment. The man knew why. 'It's the last one,' whispered through his brain. He would not live to see thirty-nine.

Safely at Gringotts were his last will and testament, and the letters he had written to his mother and to the only other person about whom he cared knew the truth. He would not even think her name at this moment - there were limits to even his endurance. He had reconciled himself long ago, or so he had thought, to the idea that he would not survive this; maybe even welcomed it a little, though he would fight to survive until his task was done. But here, on what he knew would be his last birthday, it was almost more than he could bear. He almost wished he had enough left in him to rage at the injustice of it all. Anything would be better than this hollowed-out feeling and the raw burn of being completely alone.

The cacophony of the clock startled the man from the dark thoughts he'd allowed to seep in. Swiftly he rose to his feet to silence the infernal thing. He'd wanted to hex the bloody gadget into the North Sea on more than one occasion and couldn't fathom why he had been unable to bring himself to do so, but he spared it once more and stood in the silence, sequestering his traitorous emotions. He ignored the soft calling of his name from the portrait behind the desk and slipped behind the door of the Headmaster's bedchamber. The man never slept there, but the castle obligingly rearranged itself at his wish, so that the door opened into his own rooms. Hogwarts herself accepted him as Head, even if no one else here did.

The man was about to light the fire when there was a soft 'pop' behind him. He turned to face the elf, surprised to find Malfoy's old servant in front of him. Immediately wary, he folded his arms across his chest and peered down his long nose at the creature, then spoke in his most imperious tones.

"What do you want?"

The elf fiddled with the lumpy parchment envelopes in his hands, but showed no signs of intimidation otherwise. "Dobby is bringing the Headmaster Sir the letters he is given. They is neither poisoned or cursed. Dobby has checked."

"What?!" He was too surprised and puzzled to wonder why the elf would take it into his head to do such a thing. "Who brought them to you?"

The elf shook his little head fiercely, his great ears a-flap. "They isn't brought. They is _appearing_. And they is having the Headmaster Sir's name on them. So Dobby checked."

"Very well, then. Give them to me." And the man reached down for them as if such materialized for him on a regular basis and he saw nothing out of the ordinary with it. The elf placed the two irregularly shaped letters in his hands and nodded as if he'd heard the unasked question in the man's head.

"We has been protecting your food and drink, as The Lady is asking," said Dobby softly. "Hogwarts is knowing." The shining eyes looked up into his. "Dobby is knowing, but we is keeping your secret." And with another soft 'pop' the elf disappeared.

It was several minutes before the man's eyes cleared and he could swallow past the lump in his throat to look at the missives in his hands.

The first was addressed to him in flamboyant sparkling purple ink that would have done Lockheart proud, but he recognized the handwriting. Leave it to Dumbledore to find a way to get a message to him from beyond the veil and what does he send? Birthday greetings. Useless. Hand trembling, he opened it, and a spell-shielded Phoenix feather floated free, hovering in front of him. Gaping, he looked down at the letter.

 

My Dear Severus,

Please accept this token of my esteem on your natal day. Keep it with you, and he will come to you if you are in need.

I am certain that in my last moments I was not able to thank you for what you have sacrificed, and for all that you have done - especially for me. I am hoping that you will not view this as too little, too late and will forgive an old man who has relied on you beyond what any could have hoped for and not found you wanting. Happy Birthday, my friend.

With Loving Regard,

Albus Dumbledore

 

Again the man swallowed past what felt like a boxful of bezoars in his throat. There was white hot rage; rage which made him want to incinerate both the letter and the feather, but it flared and died. What was the use: the old man was gone. His forgiveness was rather beside the point now, but he granted it nevertheless - it would be one less dead weight on his own heart. Thus, as he pocketed the feather, he resisted the urge to wonder whether it had been given for his own sake or to keep him around for Potter's needs, and attended to the second letter.

The moment the seal was broken, an ebony knight from a chess set he knew nearly as well as his own leaped from the enclosure and landed on the floor in front of him, his little mount pawing impatiently.

"Well," it said in a well-loved voice, "aren't you going to pick me up, then?"

As the man stood gaping for the second time in the space of ten minutes, it spoke again in much softer tones. "Don't be daft, man, I'm nae cursed."

He didn't care at that moment if it was. He knelt and stretched out his hand and the knight galloped onto his palm. The man lifted it close to his face. The chevalier dismounted and knelt. His sword, he held out - pommel extended. He took the tiny thing with his other hand. The knight bent his head.

"I've been a right fool," it said. "I want to talk to you, Severus. Please, come to me when you get this message. I don't care what the hour is, I won't be sleeping anyway. My Floo is open."

With that, both the little man and his horse went stiff and lifeless and fell over in his hand. He sank to the floor and absently put the bits of the knight back in the envelope.

Oh, it was dangerous, what he wanted to do. Not for just himself, but for her, and for the others he was responsible for. He should ignore this. Pretend he never saw it. But suddenly there was something fluttering in his chest he'd given up on. Did he dare? Would he condemn them all if he did?

As if in answer, the phoenix feather flared warm in his pocket. Involuntarily, he closed his hand over it, and the warmth spread, until it held the man in its gentle embrace. He slipped the envelope with the chessman into his pocket with the feather and stood. The fire flared as he reached for the jar on his mantle, grabbed a handful of its contents and threw it into the flames.

"Minerva," he called softly, "I'm coming through."

 

fin


End file.
